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Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Henry Flower's

‘Most people can put up
with a bite from a wolf but what properly riles them is a bite from a sheep.’
James Joyce, Ulysses.

Henry James Flower had
always, always been ambivalent about life: such outstanding, magnificent beauty
was also the most horrifying and disgusting filth; life and death, gladness and
sadness, pleasure and pain were the only things that defined each other. And to
this day Henry finds it difficult to just take this bad with the good.

Unfortunately for Henry this ‘badness’ was
presently being expressed in his being held up at the Redferne Quinnswerth for
theft: he had three chocolate bars in his backpack and no receipt (but which were
indeed legitimately purchased.) The checkout operator, during the compulsory
bag inspection, must have been a super keen employee for he guessed that the
dero-looking Henry was buying a small apple only as a cover for more goodies in
his stinking bag.

And try as desperately as Henry could to
explain himself the manager was called in, the police were called in, and Henry
found himself with very little time to prepare to avoid a gaol sentence.
Thankfully it didn’t take him long to realise that since he had been officially
diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia he had a solid mental health defence in
any fracas. Thus he spent the time awaiting the police rehearsing a role to be
played to them highlighting his outrageous nuttiness. And anyone’s nutty who’s
dressed in stinking trackies, grimy all over, and with dreadlocks.

It was the grimy trackies that the police
first noticed, assuming then that the dero was undoubtedly guilty. Naturally
they would have given this piece of human detritus a break but they had both
just come from a crime scene where two victims’ heads had been blown off. They
were husband and wife. The husband had left a note. The police took their
trauma out on Henry while they hauled him off to lock-up. His mental health
plea was treated as a joke.

‘Okay, fuckhead, you’ve got one phone call.
We’ll let you out in an hour to make it. You’ll have five minutes.’ The
arresting officer then made it a point to surreptitiously give Henry the
finger, apparently scratching the right side of his nose.

It was at this point that Henry realised
the immense boon of having a father who is a practicing lawyer of quite some
years. Henry spent the time waiting for this free legal work by rolling a day’s
worth of cigarettes, and only smoking the first of them (twenty-five) when his
father had come onto the phone line.

When the dero’s lawyer told the police
that the dero was indeed mentally ill they had no trouble in accordingly
processing him, after of course checking the lawyer’s credentials online. The
dero would be accompanied to Rozella Psychiatric Hospital in the father’s
company. Indeed Henry’s father was told his son was currently being released
from his holding cell so that he may await the ambulance to Rozella in some
comfort.

The police were true to their word and
Henry was very happy, knowing that he had just got out of gaol free. He didn’t
mind that his father in attendance clearly warned him that he, the father,
Simon Patrick Flower, planned to have his only son involuntarily committed to
Rozella. After all, Simon reasoned, Henry was literally a dero, only
twenty-four years of age, and doing nothing more than travelling upon the path
of doom. Henry would be dead at fifty. And after living a horrible, filthy
existence. Simon always thought of it as a living hell.

Naturally Henry was admitted to Rozella
instantly, whom knew him well, dressed in his usual rags and again attempting
to prove that he was in fact God. All of the other schizophrenics throughout
history were in fact a cover for Him, a disguise to Meld in with. He also
didn’t mind being involuntarily committed because he knew a pot dealer close to
the hospital. Mind you Henry didn’t have his preferred hash pipe but then again
he really had no objections to joints. Yesiree, Henry was fully expecting a
fine time in hospital.

This was not to be though, as Henry’s bad
luck was holding. He faced the Mental Health Tribunal two days after admission
and was ordered into the locked ward of Rozella. He knew he shouldn’t have told
them of his suicidal tendencies this time, but then again, in being honest with
the Tribunal Henry knew that he was in fact being honest with himself.

This thought was sustained by him whilst
he was lead beyond the locked doors, had his clothing removed, and had changed
into a thin pair of lime coloured cotton pyjamas. Henry was prepared for the
worst.

*

He was not prepared for
the best. For the best food that he’d ever tasted, and so very nutritious. Why
hadn’t he noticed this before? Probably because he had really been too far gone
in mental illness during his previous admissions. Maybe Paradise was really a
mental hospital after all? God knows that the food was testament to that. In
fact Henry loved the food so much that he managed to get fed extra. This was
usually an hour after dinner, which was at six pm, and he would approach a
nurse saying that he was still hungry after a small dinner. The nurse invariably
agreed that the patients’ meals weren’t robust enough and was quite happy to
assist someone needing a bit more. While Henry consumed his boon in the kitchen
with the nurse in attendance Henry would talk about how food was his central concern
on the streets, his main focus, whilst he drifted from squat to squat. Food, he
often asserted, was mainly for comfort. It was a confirmation that he, Henry,
had made the right choice by becoming homeless, avoiding all stink of rent or
mortgages, of the stink of all private property in fact.

It shouldn’t be surprising then when Henry
was released from the locked ward two weeks later onto the open ward that he continued
to make extra attempts for some of the hospital’s quality cuisine. Yet it was
this rapaciousness that saw him soon discharged altogether back into the squat
that he had arrived from. With far more patients on the open ward the hospital
simply could not afford to satisfy Henry’s constant, extra demands. We mustn’t
blame the hospital too much though for discharging the hungry Henry back into
unsafe housing as Henry had often proclaimed that he was ‘quite able to secure
safe housing.’ He just didn’t believe in safe housing in the modern world, the
world merely being a corruption engendered by every filthy capitalist.

When he did arrive at his squat he was
surprisingly appalled by the discarded, used needles scattered around the old
coffee table in the living room. It was the very, very opposite of the
wholesome, open enjoyment of Rozella’s locked ward cuisine. These junkies were
lucky if they could hold down a small carton of milk.

Even
though Henry knew that his junkie housemates had only appetites for heroin he
still began cooking for everybody, fondly recalling Rozella’s locked ward
whilst doing so. It was usually pasta or rice with some meat and sauce. Henry
was the only one who enjoyed it however, always thanking blind Chance for the opportunity
to eat something really wholesome, cooked with his own diligence upon a
roaring, open fire. The other housemates though saw it as an easy breakfast.

It was during one of these breakfasts,
about noon, a week after Henry’s discharge, during the middle of Sydney’s cold
2012 winter, that Henry was surprised by a visit from his father.

‘Dad!’ He exclaimed upon answering the
knock at the front door. ‘How did you get my address?’

‘Rozella told me. Or, one might argue,
were tricked into telling me. That’s for the judge to decide.’ Henry had no
plans though to blackball his father.

‘What do you want?’ Then Henry remembered
his manners. ‘Care to come in?’

‘Thanks.’ Simon was then led into the
living room and introduced to Henry’s housemates. These three housemates however
weren’t so drug addled as to allow Henry’s consult with his father to occur in
public, singly and gracefully excusing themselves.

‘Well, Henry,’ began Simon, ‘now that your
kind housemates have left us alone it’s time to talk about why I’m here.’

‘Dad, I’m not moving back in with you and
Mum. This squatting is the only real free life.’

‘I’m not here to get you to come back
home. I’m here to tell you that you may have a claim against Rozella Hospital
for breach of duty-of-care in persistently discharging you back to a squat. You
could come into a tidy sum of money.’ Henry was silent a short while, then,

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. You could buy yourself a
small flat with the compensation monies. You’d probably need a bit extra for
that but your mother and I are quite willing to advance you the monies.’

‘But what about my wanting to be homeless?
My wanting to be completely free?’

‘You’ve got paranoid schizophrenia, Henry,
such desires are therefore irrational. That’s why your first four admissions to
a mental hospital were into their locked ward . . .’

‘No it wasn’t . . .

‘Well soon after that you were usually
locked up. Do you still claim that you’re God?’

‘I can prove it.’

‘Well either way, son, you have a claim
against the hospital. But to make it virtually risk free you have to get off
the streets. Move into some fairly stable housing.’

‘I’m not doing that. I like being able to
travel whenever I want.’

‘Henry, if you were to get a lease for a
year you could show a judge that you had serious ambitions to get a safe place,
that Rozella should have done more to encourage these ambitions.’

‘But that would be a lie.’

‘Would it? Haven’t you ever wanted the
modern conveniences? A clean, private toilet? Running water? A place to
shower?’

‘All the products of greedy capitalists.’

‘But look out for yourself, Henry, like
everyone else is looking out for themselves. Self-interest is quite natural.
I’m telling you there’s money to be made here. Just listen to me and do as I
advise.’ It was the mention of available money, again, that gave Henry pause
for thought.

‘Good money,’ he asked. He may well be
able to donate it to some noble cause.

‘Enough to set you up,’ affirmed Simon.

Still, Henry suddenly realised, it was all
too good to be true.

‘Sorry, Dad, but I don’t think anyone’s
going to pay me for declining safe housing. I was very up-front with Rozella
saying that I can look after my own housing. And that’s still true: I have a
roof over my head, a warm bed to sleep in and somewhere private to eat my meals,
rare as they are. What more do I need?
Isn’t that what we all ask for?’

‘But other people’s places don’t have
infected needles on the floor. And smashed windows allowing any old thief or
murderer in.’

‘They’re not infected.’

‘Can you be sure?’ Well, not really, Henry
realised.

‘Well, I don’t care. I’m not giving up
this perfectly free life, the whole world just a step away.’

Simon then knew that he was talking to a
brick wall and soon after left. He made his way to Rozella once again and
managed to convince them that Henry had been discharged prematurely, again. It
was the threat of imminent legal action that motivated them to reclaim Henry.
At least Henry hadn’t resisted the arresting police officers. And at least
Henry could rely on excellent food for the next several weeks.

His father though had more long term
plans. Over a week of visiting his son he was able to convince him to lay a
claim against the hospital. Henry duly agreed to make serious efforts to get
off of the streets but only with the proviso that he was free to return at any
time. Simon agreed, sure that his son would appreciate the luxuries so offered
and thus be unwilling to return to being a dero. Henry could still have his
wine and pot, but now he could do so within Paradise, a home inviolate. Simon
was unsurprised when they settled for sixty-thousand, plus costs, but he was
surprised when Henry took up the offer of his parents loaning him the balance
on the price of a bedsitter in Blacktown. Henry remains there to this day,
winter 2015, and he is very keen on cooking at least once per day. He also respects
his parents a lot more, seeing them as genuinely interested in his welfare.
Need I say that he didn’t go back to the streets?

~~~

If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books

and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD Fitzpatrick is also having a collection of short stories, Aberrant Selected, published by Waldorf Publishing in 2018. You can follow its journey at www.aberrantselected.blogspot.com